Open Daily: 10am - 10pm | Alley door pickup 10am - 7pm 3038 Hennepin Ave Minneapolis, MN
612-822-4611

  • Open Daily: 10am - 10pm
    Alley-side Pickup: 10am - 7pm

    3038 Hennepin Ave Minneapolis, MN
    612-822-4611

Open Daily: 10am - 10pm | Alley-side Pickup: 10am - 7pm
3038 Hennepin Ave Minneapolis, MN
612-822-4611
Fille de

Fille de

Achache, Carole

Paperback

Series: La Bleue

Literary Fiction

ISBN10: 2234070945
ISBN13: 9782234070943
Publisher: Stock
Published: Nov 8 2021
Pages: 304
Weight: 0.82
Height: 0.68 Width: 5.32 Depth: 8.47
Language: French

Daughter of

My mother left me an enigma, the story of our relationship. She was unusual in liking only homosexuals. She worked for the publishers Gallimard, and was a writer. She let me, with my child's eyes, witness an exceptional period in intellectual and literary life after the Liberation. Literature, politics, friendships and bad faith, feet and fists linked together. The Communist Pary, the smala of mostly exiled Spaniards, turning up at her apartment on the rue Poissonière when she started her relationship with Juan Goytisolo when I was three. A clutch of remarkable individuals who wanted to be free at the end of the war. Violette Leduc, Duras, Florence Malraux, Jorge Semprun, Faulkner, Jean Genet, Queneau, Giacometti. I spent time with them, quite unaware of the privilege. There she was with her flights of enthusiasm. There I was with my femininity.
I saw her and loved her. I didn't understand everything. I lived surrounded by adults. I watched, grew up, asked questions. My mother revealed herself. Telling me the truth meant admitting her faults. She mumbled half-truths. My world may well have been defined by her intelligence, but it did nothing to elucidate me. I lost my footing. was filled with rage. Something didn't fit. When did this start? How far would I go? I didn't leave her. She was the one who left. She breathed her last. She bequeathed me her diaries, it was like coming across a goldmine. I read them, deciphered them. I saw, but it was too late. I was locked in silence, I told no one. I was ashamed of what I had lived. She too had told no one, I found out by chance. This novel is about that silence. I don't know whether I love her now. I have protected her too much. Her name is Monique Lange, a name that sounds like the French for the angel - just like her. She would do without her sexuality, her breasts, a woman's blood and, most importantly, a man's sperm. And yet, I came from her. I dream of a world where no one will be ashamed of admitting who he or she is or has been.

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